


Perfect for Me

by TrueIllusion



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Anxiety, Anxious David Rose, Canon Compliant, Caretaking, Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Illness, One Shot, Romance, Season/Series 06, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2020-04-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23563717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrueIllusion/pseuds/TrueIllusion
Summary: David Rose had never been good with sick people.With germs in general, actually, but especially with people whose bodies were temporarily serving as miniature germ factories, spewing viruses out in every direction, threatening to contaminate him with every cough or sneeze.But when that sick person was Patrick, it was different.At least, David wanted it to be.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 52
Kudos: 290





	Perfect for Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is not a COVID-19 story; I started writing it well before the quarantine, just because I love David and Patrick and wanted to experiment a little with them. (And I really love writing hurt/comfort.) It's set ambiguously mid-season six.
> 
> This is my first "go" at writing in this fandom, so I hope you enjoy!
> 
> To my QAF peeps: Don't worry. I'm not going anywhere. <3
> 
> Thank you to PrettyTheWorld for the beta and for helping me bring the snark! (And for mentioning that she was watching this little show that I ended up falling in love with.)

David Rose had never been good with sick people.

With germs in general, actually, but especially with people whose bodies were temporarily serving as miniature germ factories, spewing viruses out in every direction, threatening to contaminate him with every cough or sneeze.

But when that sick person was Patrick, it was different.

At least, David wanted it to be.

It started off as a stuffy nose that Patrick had woken up with that morning, which wasn’t exactly alarming, given that the trees in Schitt’s Creek were in full bloom and Patrick was allergic to practically everything. He’d been going through tissues like they were going out of style and his eyes were constantly red and itchy, despite taking three different allergy medications that were supposed to be managing his body’s over-the-top reaction to a simple molecule of pollen.

Patrick had skipped his normal routine of making breakfast for both of them before they headed to the store, but that wasn’t all that unusual either. Especially since they’d been up late the night before, engaging in “salacious activities,” as Moira had once said on an unfortunate occasion when she’d overheard the two of them having a more… private moment... in the back room of the Apothecary. Instead, they’d grabbed a quick breakfast to go from the cafe, arriving at the store with a few minutes to spare before opening. Patrick only ate about half of his sandwich, but that was also to be expected because he was thoroughly distracted with going over their sales reports, trying to decide which product lines to expand and which to discontinue.

Of course, there was never any accounting for taste when Patrick made those sorts of decisions, which were always based purely on sales figures and profit margins with absolutely no regard for the store’s overall aesthetic, much to David’s dismay. After all, who wanted a store full of toilet plungers, even if they did sell -- especially on the days when Twyla’s homemade chili was on special at Cafe Tropical.

So Patrick was poring over a mess of papers at the counter while David dusted the shelves and moved products one millimeter at a time until everything was “just so,” and that was exactly how the two of them spent the first couple of hours that the store was open, save for the few minutes when Jocelyn had been in the store with a screeching Roland Jr., who apparently could only be soothed with a $10 jar of organic applesauce. And that was when things started to take a turn for the worse.

Patrick’s excessive tissue consumption had quickly filled up the tiny wastebasket behind the counter, and he’d had more than a few sneezing fits, including one that had made Jocelyn surreptitiously move the stroller away from the counter, lest her and Roland’s offspring end up contaminated with Patrick’s germs. But it was the one that didn’t seem like it was going to end -- the one that consisted of no less than ten sneezes, that left Patrick with his eyes watering, slumped over the counter trying to catch his breath -- that prompted David to say, “Hey, I’ve got this, if you want to go home… turn on your air purifier, and rest a little.”

Patrick hadn’t wanted to go home, though; he told David he wanted to stay and finish going over the reports, so they could put in their orders for the following month later that afternoon.

“I’m fine,” he insisted. “Really, it’s just allergies.”

“Yes, but considering that your nose is doing its very _best_ impression of a leaky faucet at the moment, perhaps it’s best if we don’t scare customers with the threat of catching the bubonic plague.”

Patrick rolled his eyes and said nothing, instead turning his attention back to the paperwork on the counter. David was preparing his next argument when the door opened and a pair of women came in seeking advice on facial moisturizers, which David was happy to wax eloquent about while Patrick continued sniffling and sneezing behind the counter.

Patrick did excuse himself -- thank god -- and go into the back while David rang up over $300 worth of skin care products for the two women, but his next massive sneezing fit could still be heard very clearly on the other side of the curtain. Once the women were out the door, David went into the back to check on Patrick, only to find him sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his head resting on folded arms atop his knees, breathing much harder than he should have been.

“You sure you don’t want to spend some quality time with that top-of-the-line HEPA filtration system I bought you?” David asked, in an overly sweet way that likely made his ulterior motive of getting Patrick and his potential germs out of the store very, very clear.

Patrick let out a resigned sigh-turned-groan before lifting his head up to look at David, his eyes now much redder and watery enough that he looked like he’d been crying.

David tried his best not to cringe at the sight of his fiance in what his mother would term a “most pitiful state,” though he wasn’t sure he succeeded -- his face somehow always managed to betray any attempt he made to hide his true feelings about anything. Thankfully, he didn’t have to say anything more, because Patrick’s next words were, “Yeah, okay. That sounds like a good idea.”

He pushed himself up from the floor, struggling a little to keep his balance as he did it, then paused with his eyes closed for a few seconds before he started gathering his things. David tried to stop him from putting the stack of paperwork in his satchel, but Patrick insisted that the work wasn’t going to do itself, wordlessly insinuating that he didn’t quite trust David to finish going over them in his absence. Not that the numbers were David’s cup of tea anyhow, but he liked feeling like he was capable of performing every task necessary to keep his business -- okay, _their_ business -- running smoothly.

Patrick attempted to kiss David goodbye, but David waved him off, again trying not to recoil at just how close Patrick’s oozing face had come to touching his own. Instead, he settled for running his hands gently over Patrick’s shoulders with a whispered, “I love you,” before sending him on his way.

The rest of the day was slow-but-steady, which was normal for a Wednesday in Schitt’s Creek, where most of the citizens seemed to do their shopping on Saturdays. Still, David was looking forward to getting home to Patrick, who had apparently spent the afternoon napping, since he hadn’t responded to any of David’s texts.

David completed all of the required tasks involved in closing the store -- all the while definitely noticing the absence of his partner, who was much faster at the financial aspects of their closing routine than he was. But David got it all done, and the cash drawer was only five cents short, which felt like a win. Once he’d put the deposit in the safe, he grabbed his jacket off the coat hook in the stockroom and turned off all the lights, then left the store. He had to walk to Patrick’s apartment since Patrick had taken the car when he left, but the temperature felt mild for mid-March, so it wasn’t bad, and it gave David some time to think about which new product lines he really wanted to pressure Patrick into letting him carry and how exactly he would accomplish that feat.

When David walked through the door of Patrick’s apartment, the first thing he noticed was Patrick’s loud snoring, which was easily drowning out the soft hum of the air purifier. Patrick snored a little bit on most nights -- or at least the ones when he failed to use the little blue thing that somehow held his nasal passages open -- but not like this. In fact, in the three years they’d been together, David had never heard Patrick snore that loudly. Patrick was curled up on his side in bed, dressed in a well-worn t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, only halfway under the covers. From across the apartment, David could clearly see the rosy flush of Patrick’s cheeks and the sheen of sweat across his brow, which was furrowed just slightly, even as he slept.

David tried to make as little noise as possible as he hung up his coat and deposited his keys on the table, so as not to disturb Patrick, but he’d just stepped away from the table when Patrick’s snoring stopped, followed by a very rough, “Hey.”

David turned to give his husband-to-be a small smile as he crossed the apartment to take a seat on the edge of the bed. “Hey,” he said softly, his affection for the man before him clear in his voice in a way he’d never been able to mask -- and honestly didn’t want to. “How are you feeling?”

Patrick rolled onto his back and attempted to take a deep breath, but he didn’t manage to complete the inhalation before dissolving into a coughing fit. David shrunk away involuntarily, hoping he managed to keep it relatively imperceptible, not that Patrick would have noticed if he hadn’t, since his eyes were closed. Hesitating, he reached out a hand to gently rub Patrick’s shoulder and chest, in exactly the way he remembered Adelina comforting him as a child when he was ill. Inwardly, he was still cringing as he did it, while the germophobic part of him fought with the part that loved Patrick more than life and wanted to help and comfort him.

It took Patrick a bit to get his breathing back to normal and blink his eyes open to gaze at David, their warm whiskey color somewhat obscured by a glassy sheen. “So, I don’t think this is allergies,” he croaked, his voice now much hoarser than it had been earlier that day.

“I think I’d be inclined to agree with that.” David continued running his hand over Patrick’s shoulder and bicep, hoping his movements felt more confident to Patrick than they did to him. Still, he was careful to avoid getting anywhere close to Patrick’s hands, which seemed more likely to be harboring germs. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

David wasn’t quite sure what that help would involve, or whether or not he’d even be able to provide it without sending himself into an anxiety attack, but he knew he had to try, because he loved Patrick. He’d never been in a relationship with anyone else long enough to ever broach the subject of caring for them when they were sick, so this was yet another “first” he was experiencing with Patrick, unpleasant as it was. But that was everything this relationship had already been on so many levels -- pushing David outside of his well-established comfort zones and into uncharted territory over and over again, with everything somehow turning out okay every single time.

Thankfully, Patrick’s request was simple and instantly alleviated David’s anxiety.

“Can you make me some tea?”

That, David could do.

“Sure,” he said softly, giving Patrick’s forearm a gentle squeeze before getting up from the bed and crossing the apartment to the tiny kitchen. “Any flavor preferences?”

“A hot toddy sounds good,” Patrick said, his voice barely audible from that distance, with as hoarse as it was. “With lots of honey, and some of that whiskey Stevie gave you for your birthday.”

“Your wish is my command.” David busied himself filling up the tea kettle and turning on the stove, then rummaged through the pantry until he found the tea. He pulled Patrick’s favorite coffee mug out of the cabinet -- the one his mother had sent him in a care package when he’d first moved to Schitt’s Creek -- then opened one of the sachets of English breakfast tea they carried at the store.

Out of the corner of his eye, David saw Patrick slowly roll out of bed and shuffle into the bathroom, moving as if his entire body was sore, which usually only happened after a particularly intense softball game. He heard Patrick noisily blow his nose, then the sound of water running for a minute or two -- likely Patrick washing his face or brushing his teeth, or both. When Patrick emerged from the bathroom, his feet were almost dragging as he made his way back to the bed before collapsing into it with a loud sigh.

“God,” he murmured, breathing as if he’d walked a much longer distance than the few feet between his bed and the bathroom. “I haven’t been this sick in years. Not since I caught mono at university.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s not that this time.” David couldn’t stop his voice from rising in tone as he spoke, the increase in pitch in perfect synch with his increasing anxiety.

“I don’t think you can get it twice,” Patrick mumbled. “I think it’s one of those things like the chicken pox.”

David let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, then nodded and said, “Okay, yeah. That makes sense.”

“David, it’s probably just the flu.” Patrick’s sudden shift to a more reassuring tone told David that he’d sensed the anxiety behind David’s words, just like he always did. “I’ll stay home for a few days, and I’ll be good as new. You should probably go stay at the motel, so you don’t get it too.”

A small part of David wanted to agree with Patrick’s last statement, if for no other reason than to settle the growing sense of unease in his gut that was currently being perpetuated by his germophobia, but the sensible part knew that he’d only end up spending the next three or four days worrying about Patrick instead of worrying about germs.

“No,” David said quickly, before the anxious part of his brain had a chance to convince him to leave. “I’m staying here and taking care of you.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to--”

“I’m sure. I mean, who could pass up the opportunity to play the sexy nurse?” David joked, trying to make his voice sound more confident and less nervous, and hoping he’d succeeded, though honestly, he wasn’t sure he had.

Patrick opened his mouth, presumably to respond, but ended up coughing instead. David turned his attention back to the teapot, which -- thankfully -- was almost ready. He occupied himself with the task of gathering the rest of the ingredients for Patrick’s hot toddy, taking the honey out of the pantry and a lemon from the refrigerator, while Patrick continued to cough. When the coughing fit finally ended, Patrick settled back into the pillows with a groan. The teapot chose that exact moment to start whistling, so David turned off the burner and poured some of the hot water over the teabag.

“Just a few more minutes,” he said, calling once again on his past experiences with Adelina to inform the calming tone he was trying to adopt.

Patrick nodded without trying to speak this time, then let his eyes drift closed. David walked back over to the bed, carefully perching himself on the edge once again before laying a hand on Patrick’s thigh.

“Is there anything else you need? I can go to Elmdale if it’s not something we can get here. Or I can bribe Stevie to go.”

Patrick shook his head but didn’t open his eyes. “I’m okay,” he whispered. “You really don’t have to take care of me.”

“I want to.”

This time, David didn’t have to try to make his words sound any different, because he absolutely meant what he said. He really did want to stay and take care of Patrick, even though he knew it was going to be hard -- and even if it did mean he really wished he had a surgical mask handy for protection. As it was, he’d have to make do with lots of hand sanitizer, thorough hand washing, and trying his best not to breathe when Patrick was coughing.

Patrick didn’t argue again; instead, he let out a frustrated-sounding sigh that turned into a partially-stifled cough, followed by a groan. He blinked his eyes open, somehow managing to look even sicker and more pitiful than he had just a few minutes before, with his always-impossibly-sincere gaze now one of clear distress, combined with a touch of sadness.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “I don’t know where I picked this up.”

“Don’t apologize,” David said softly, as he ran his hand up and down Patrick’s leg, grateful to be closer to a “safe” body part that likely wasn’t harboring as many germs.

“There are just so many things we need to get done at the store. I need to finish going over those reports so I can get our orders in for next month, and Heather is stopping by the store early tomorrow morning to drop off some more cheese--”

“I’ll take care of it.” David shushed Patrick by interrupting him, his hand still tracing its way idly over Patrick’s leg. “You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“David, you can’t--”

“Shh. I promise I won’t greenlight Alexis’ line of festival wear, hair feathers, and body jewelry until you’re back in your right mind.”

“You’d better not be greenlighting that at all.”

“Just testing you.” A smile played at David’s lips as he patted Patrick’s leg, then pushed himself up to stand. “Now, you relax, and I’ll be right back with your tea.”

David squeezed a little bit of lemon juice and a generous amount of local honey into the tea, followed by an even more generous amount of whiskey that he hoped would help Patrick rest, then carried the mug over to his fiance. After taking several small sips, Patrick set the steaming mug on his bedside table and settled back into the pillows, again allowing his eyes to slide shut.

“You sure you don’t need anything else?” David asked again, his anxiety now driving a deep-seated desire to do something useful for Patrick, although he still had no idea what that something should be. “Some dinner, or… I mean, I’m not much of a cook, but I could go get you something from the cafe--”

The rushed torrent of words pouring uncontrollably out of David’s mouth -- another of anxiety’s lovely gifts -- somehow dissolved instantly when Patrick gave a small, sluggish shake of the head, leaving his eyes closed. “A nap,” he murmured. “That’s all.”

“Okay.” David gave Patrick a small smile, even though he couldn’t see it. “I’ll just be right over there if you need me.” He gestured toward the couch, which was only a few feet from the bed in Patrick’s shoebox of an apartment.

David’s first stop after leaving Patrick’s bedside was actually the bathroom, where he scrubbed his hands thoroughly with the bar of lemon-scented goats’ milk soap -- another product line of Heather’s that they’d recently launched -- before deciding that perhaps a shower might be more prudent, to help wash off the day (and any lingering viruses). He tried to be as quiet as possible as he returned to the main room to retrieve the pajamas he’d been keeping there since the first night Patrick moved in, sneaking another glance at his fiance on his way to the shelf where he kept a small stash of his beloved sweaters as well. Patrick’s face looked peaceful, save for the slight furrow that was still present on his brow and the rosy tint of his fair skin.

Sometimes David wondered what he’d done to deserve this man. Patrick was his polar opposite. The yin to his yang. The Johnny to his Moira. Patrick kept David grounded when his own thoughts wanted to take off with him, and he knew exactly the right formula of sarcasm and uncomfortable truth it took to calm David on a day when he was being particularly “extra.” Patrick showed him that he did deserve love, that he deserved to be happy, and -- most importantly -- that both were possible for him. He’d spent all of his twenties and a good chunk of his thirties being told over and over again that he was “too much to deal with,” like he was some sort of a problem to be solved instead of a person with feelings, hopes, dreams, and desires.

Sometimes he still struggled to stop seeing himself that way too, no matter how many times Patrick demonstrated to him that he wasn’t going anywhere. That he loved every part of David -- even the parts David himself wasn’t very fond of -- unconditionally. Even when he wet the bed because he was so fucking excited to be marrying the man. David wasn’t sure he’d ever overcome the embarrassment of remembering _that_ particular moment, and it still felt like a wonder that Patrick hadn’t run away screaming because seriously, what thirty-something _pees_ in the fucking _bed_? But Patrick had been right there -- the seemingly unshakeable presence that he always was -- cleaning up the mess and assuring David over and over again that there was nothing to be ashamed of. That it was all okay, and Patrick was there for him, and would be there for him always, no matter what.

Because that was what marriage was. Taking care of your partner. For better or for worse. In sickness and in health.

A sudden, loud snore coming from the bed jolted David out of his thoughts, bringing him back to the present moment -- the moment where he was living that vow, even though he hadn’t yet taken it. And he actually did want to do it, despite it being a significant challenge, thanks to the constant undercurrent of anxiety that ran beneath David’s every thought and action.

He drew in a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could, taking one last look at Patrick before he tiptoed back to the bathroom and closed the door. David took a long, hot shower, then spent a little extra time on his nighttime skincare routine. Having a task to focus on was calming and helped him gather his thoughts, so that he felt at least a little more ready to be the person Patrick needed him to be in that moment -- the person he wanted to be. A strong, steady presence for Patrick in the same way that Patrick always was for him.

David still wasn’t sure what exactly he should _do_ , but he figured he would let Patrick lead the way, while he continued wracking his brain to figure out what a loving partner does for their significant other when they aren’t feeling well. His only real experience with being cared for while he was sick came from his childhood, when Adelina would make him soup -- a special recipe that had been passed down from generation to generation in her family -- and bring it to him in bed. She would gently wipe his face with a cool, damp cloth when he was feverish, and she would rub his back when he was kneeling in front of the toilet with one stomach bug or another, or even a hangover once he got to his teens and started hanging out with the wrong crowd. They were all things that his mother never would have done, simply because they weren’t in her wheelhouse, even if she had been home instead of off filming a soap opera most of the time. So his memories were of Adelina, like always. She might not have given birth to him, but she’d raised him and cared for him as if he were her own.

A series of coughs coming from the bedroom pulled David back out of his head and into the present moment once again, and before the anxious part of his brain could even question what he was doing, he opened the door to check on his fiance. Patrick was awake and slowly sipping his hot toddy, which David was sure was far cooler than optimal temperature by that point.

“I can make you another one, if you want,” David said softly, as he made his way to the bed, again perching himself on the edge, just far enough away from Patrick’s still-oozing face.

Patrick shook his head as he leaned over to set the mug back down on the bedside table. “This is good,” he said, his normally smooth and calming voice becoming progressively scratchier each time he spoke. “I think I’m just gonna try to sleep, and hope that I’ll feel better in the morning.”

“I told you I’d take care of meeting Heather at the store. You don’t have to worry about anything.”

“I know, but--”

“No buts. Sexy nurse’s orders.” The corner of David’s mouth curved upward into a smirk as he slowly ran a hand up Patrick’s thigh. That action did exactly what David hoped it would do -- draw a smile out of Patrick, despite how awful he seemed to be feeling. “You’re officially off tomorrow. Now, what time am I meeting Heather at the store?”

“Eight o’clock.”

David tried to keep his smile steady as he nodded, simultaneously trying to figure out exactly what ungodly hour he’d have to wake up in order to make it all the way through his nine-step skincare regimen, eat breakfast, and get to the store before 8 a.m.

“I can text her and tell her to wait until next week,” Patrick said, making it painfully clear that David hadn’t succeeded in keeping a straight face, despite his best efforts.

“No, we’re good.” David shook his head and patted Patrick’s leg in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I’ll be there at eight. Besides, I’m fairly sure that running out of brie would be a tragedy from which we might never recover.”

“Indeed, that would be tragic.” Now it was Patrick’s turn to smirk at David, though its impact was substantially lessened by the series of semi-stifled coughs that followed.

“Okay, you go to sleep now.” David stood, then smoothed the blankets over Patrick’s body, tucking him in the way he remembered Adelina doing for him. The small smile Patrick gave David told him that the simple action had brought him just as much comfort as it had for David all those years ago. “Is there anything else you need? I’m sure if I give Stevie enough wine--”

“I’m fine,” Patrick interrupted, still smiling that tiny smile that had made David’s heart melt from the very first time he saw it. “I’ve got you here with me… that’s all I need.”

“Okay,” David whispered, feeling his heart rate speed up slightly, this time not from anxiety but because Patrick always managed to make him feel so damn _loved_ , even when David should have been the one taking care of him, not the other way around. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Patrick’s voice dropped off as he closed his eyes, and David reached over to turn off the lamp before walking to the other side of the bed and climbing in.

He couldn’t deny that he’d rather not spend the night lying mere inches from someone who was probably spewing out germs with every breath, but the little blue loveseat Patrick had scored at a thrift store in Elmdale was barely big enough for the two of them to share while seated, and definitely not big enough for David to lie down on comfortably. Not to mention that waking up with a raging backache would not be a good way to start his first full day working solo at the store in several weeks.

When they’d first opened, he and Patrick had adhered to a fairly consistent schedule, with each of them having two days off -- Sunday, when the store was closed, and then another day during the week when the other would work alone. But as their relationship outside of work had grown, the second day off had slowly faded away, leading to the two of them being together at the store almost always, unless Patrick was off attending some boring business seminar so he could come back with new and exciting ways to stifle David’s creativity using passionless, businessy words like return-on-investment.

But some small part of David did have to admit that he knew Patrick only had their best interests -- and the interests of their business -- at heart. Their family business, really, now that they were mere weeks away from getting married. It still felt strange for David to wrap his head around the fact that he and Patrick were about to walk down the aisle and promise their lives to each other -- something David had once thought no other human being would ever want to do with him. At least, no sane human being. But there was Patrick, falling asleep alongside him in the dim light of the full moon outside the window of a tiny apartment that he willingly shared with David on most nights now. Patrick, who had given David everything he ever wanted, sometimes without even being aware of it, just because he was a good person. Maybe the best person David had ever known.

Of course, given that Marcy and Clint Brewer were quite possibly the kindest people on the planet, it was easy to see why their son was the way he was. Patrick had been raised by two people who clearly loved him more than life, and David was grateful to be joining their family. Not that his own family wasn’t loving in their own way, but Patrick’s family seemed to be straight out of some idyllic storybook where everyone loved one another, always, no matter what curveballs were thrown at them -- including their perfect baby boy falling in love with a man by the name of David Rose, whose faults and imperfections were many.

David also knew exactly what Patrick would say if he were to express any of those thoughts out loud -- that David was perfect for him. David still wasn’t sure exactly what that was supposed to mean, but given that the words were usually followed by a long, loving kiss and sometimes a little something more, he knew it was good. That it was Patrick’s way of assuring him that he wasn’t damaged goods -- that he was worthy and special, and precious to Patrick in a way that David didn’t think anyone else had ever thought of him before.

Rolling onto his side, David studied Patrick’s features in the moonlight -- the silhouette of his button nose and his perfect lips, his forehead finally smoothing out as he drifted deeper into sleep. A part of him wanted to reach out and hold Patrick -- give him some sort of physical comfort, since that felt like something you should do for someone you loved -- but this time the uneasy part of David won out, electing to keep as much distance between the two of them as was possible in Patrick’s full-sized bed. He justified it by telling himself it was only because he needed to not get sick too, so he could keep the store and up and running, but he knew it was really anxiety-driven, and that made him feel bad about it all over again.

David let out a soft sigh as he rolled back onto his back and grabbed his phone off the nightstand to set an alarm for 6 a.m. -- an hour at which he was certain the earth didn’t yet exist, quite frankly -- then pulled the duvet up to his chin, settling in for what he hoped would be a night of good sleep to help him survive the next day.

He drifted off fairly quickly and was in the middle of a very pleasant dream when he started to become aware of a pained groaning noise coming from nearby -- a noise that, once he’d blinked his eyes open and fully brought himself back into consciousness, he realized was coming from Patrick.

Patrick was tossing and turning as he let out a series of small whimpers, his eyes still closed, though the rest of his face was tense.

“Patrick,” David said softly, wanting to reach over and touch him but hesitating a bit because he didn’t know what was happening, or if Patrick would even want to be touched. He didn’t know if Patrick was having a nightmare, or if it was just a side effect of being sick. And he didn’t know what Patrick liked when he was sick. He only knew what _he_ liked, which was to be taken care of… maybe babied just a little.

Patrick rolled onto his back, causing the dim moonlight coming from the window to illuminate his face and chest, drawing attention to the sweat across his brow and the way his t-shirt stuck to him, obviously damp. He seemed to still be sleeping, albeit very, very uncomfortably.

A sudden memory flashed in David’s head -- one of Adelina sitting on the edge of his bed, wiping his face with a damp washcloth when he was far too warm with fever, during a bout with walking pneumonia on his second week of junior high. He remembered how good it felt in that moment, even though every nerve ending in his body seemed to be screaming and he was fairly sure that even his _hair_ hurt. As Patrick’s face continued to make subtle shifts in expression, easily conveying that he was probably feeling exactly the same way 12-year-old David had, David slowly rolled out of bed, being careful not to jostle his partner, and padded into the bathroom for a washcloth. He ran it under the cool tap and wrung it out, then carried it back to the bed.

Slowly and carefully, he sat down on Patrick’s side of the bed before reaching out to wipe Patrick’s face with the washcloth, still not sure he knew what the fuck he was doing, but trying to just fucking do it before he could overanalyze anything and talk himself out of it. He’d just run the cool, damp cloth over Patrick’s forehead and jawline when Patrick’s eyes fluttered open, his brow knitted in confusion for a moment before his entire face seemed to relax and the tiniest hint of a smile came over his lips.

“Hi,” he rasped, swallowing hard and wincing as if his throat hurt before he continued. “I feel like shit.”

“I noticed,” David whispered, returning Patrick’s small smile.

“That feels really good though.” Another hard swallow, quickly followed by a wince.

“Shh… don’t talk. It’s okay. You can go back to sleep.”

Patrick nodded ever-so-slightly, then allowed his eyes to close. David folded the washcloth into a smaller rectangle and draped it over Patrick’s forehead, exactly the way he remembered Adelina once doing for him. The corners of Patrick’s lips curved upward again as he whispered, “Thanks.”

David gave Patrick’s forearm a gentle squeeze in response, because he was never quite sure what to say when someone thanked him for something. He stayed right where he was for a few more moments, just watching Patrick as he drifted back into sleep, his breath deepening as his face relaxed once again. David just hoped that the sweating was due to Patrick’s fever starting to break, and not things getting worse, because he honestly didn’t think he could trust Alexis to man the store for a day again -- even with Ted far, far away in the Galapagos -- and Stevie had to work the desk at the motel until 5 p.m., so she wasn’t an option either. The only way for David to stay home with Patrick would be to close the store completely, which would not be good for the bottom line, to say the least.

It took David a while, even after returning to his side of the bed, to fall asleep again, giving him plenty of time to curse the hour at which he’d have to get up, which seemed to be coming much faster than it should have been. Thankfully, he finally managed to get a few good hours of sleep, though not as much as he would have liked. So did Patrick, who also managed to sleep through David’s alarm and all the way through his shower and his morning skincare routine, only waking up when David was attempting to figure out how to work the coffeemaker, since coffee was going to be absolutely _essential_ if David was expected to actually _speak_ to Heather at 8 a.m.

“Did you put a filter in?” Patrick’s tired, gravelly mumble startled David so badly that he nearly dropped the glass carafe that he’d just filled up with water.

“Jesus!” David tried to set the carafe down carefully, though he wasn’t exactly successful and it sort of clattered to the counter as he tried to calm his now-racing heart. “I thought you were still asleep.”

“Sorry. I haven’t been awake long. Just trying to work up the motivation to go take a piss, and maybe a shower.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Not great… But not as bad as yesterday.” Patrick groaned softly as he propped himself up on his elbows to sit up a little, then glanced at the clock. “Are you getting ready to head to the store?”

“Yes, as soon as I figure out how to work this thing.” David turned his attention back to the coffeemaker, still not quite sure which side he was supposed to pour the water into.

“I can make it and bring it to you at the store in an hour or so. Just let me take a shower, and I’ll come help you out, so you don’t have to be by yourself all day. I think as long as I sit, I’ll be fine.”

“No.” David shook his head, then leveled Patrick with a stare that he hoped would convey he meant business. “I’ll be fine. You stay here and rest. Otherwise I’m fairly certain that this miraculous recovery you seem to be having will be very, very short-lived. Trust me, been there, done that, totally should not have gotten on that plane to Paris, but that is neither here nor there.”

Patrick snorted as he started to sit up. “Should I even ask for the details on that?” His voice was still scratchy, and he honestly didn’t sound like he felt much better than he had the night before, despite his claim that he’d be fine coming in to work.

“Best to let sleeping dogs lie on that one.” David gestured with one hand in Patrick’s general direction as he searched for the switch to turn on the coffeemaker.

“It’s on the back.” Patrick was on his feet now, though he still didn’t exactly look steady, which David felt further justified his insistence that Patrick take the day off.

“Mmm.” David nodded as he moved a hand around to the back of the coffeemaker, finally locating the switch. “Got it.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to bring a thermos to you at the store?” Patrick was halfway to the bathroom, moving very, very slowly and making it apparent that he did not need to be going _anywhere_ that day. He stifled a cough, as if to somehow further prove David’s point.

“Nope, I’m good. I’ll see you tonight.” David pressed his lips together and busied himself trying to find the travel mug Patrick would sometimes use to bring tea with him to the store, finally locating it in the back of the cabinet, next to a garish-looking mug shaped like a baseball that said, “#1 Son.”

The bathroom door clicked shut without any further words from Patrick, and the shower turned on shortly after that, as David was toasting a bagel while waiting for the coffee to brew. He toasted one for Patrick too, figuring it would be a nice gesture to at least leave him some breakfast that he wouldn’t have to prepare himself.

David still had absolutely no idea what he was doing when it came to caring for a sick partner, and his brain kept repeatedly trying to remind him of that -- convincing him that he was somehow fucking it all up and that surely, deep down inside, Patrick was probably wishing he was still back in Pembroke with Rachel, who would undoubtedly be nursing him back to health with flawless skill that David simply didn’t possess, thanks to his less-than-conventional upbringing.

David shook his head, trying to bring himself back out of his thoughts before he could get too far down that road. He had to get his coffee and get out the door, so he could get to the store in time to meet Heather. Patrick was still in the shower by the time David had his keys, phone, wallet, and travel mug ready, so he chose to call out, “Love you!” through the closed bathroom door, smiling to himself as he heard Patrick return the sentiment.

Meeting Heather early at the store turned out to be the easiest part of David’s day, which was incredibly long and boring and so, so different without Patrick there. The first four hours, he saw exactly two customers, which meant he had a hell of a lot of time to think, and that was not a good thing for David Rose at that moment. By the time lunch rolled around and Stevie stopped by to bring him a sandwich and hassle him about stupid shit, David felt like his brain had gone down no less than a dozen different anxiety spirals, all of which seemed to end in Patrick realizing he deserved much better than David could ever provide. He’d been to enough therapy sessions in his past life to know he was catastrophizing, and he was well aware that it didn’t make any sense. But he couldn’t stop it, and the quiet wasn’t helping, so Stevie’s appearance turned out to be a convenient and well-timed distraction that helped David get some traction against his racing thoughts.

He’d been fighting the impulse to call Patrick all morning too, just to check on him. But the last thing David wanted to do was keep Patrick from being able to rest, as that would only further prove exactly how terrible of a partner David was. Around mid-afternoon, sometime between Roland stopping by for a bag of loose leaf tea and Darlene’s cousin coming in to grouse loudly about the prices without purchasing a damned thing, David made up his mind that he wanted to do something really nice for Patrick, if for no other reason than to do _something_ to make himself feel useful. The only problem was, he had no idea what to do.

David was rearranging the body milk display for the dozenth time -- just trying to keep his mind occupied -- when he realized there was one person he could reach out to who would probably know exactly what would make Patrick feel better: Marcy Brewer.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, not quite sure why his hand was shaking a little -- why the prospect of calling his future mother-in-law made him feel so nervous. She’d already insisted that David call her Marcy before they headed back home after the surprise party, and she gave the very best hugs -- the kind that made you feel at ease almost immediately. But there was still something inside David that felt like Marcy belonged exclusively to Patrick, even though he knew that both Marcy and Patrick would wholly disagree.

Before he could talk himself out of it, David scrolled through his contact list until he found her name, then tapped on the call icon and held the phone to his ear, fighting the impulse to quickly hang up and act like the call had been an accident. Each time the phone rang, that impulse got harder to fight, and he was about to lose the battle when Marcy picked up.

“Hello? David?” She sounded confused, and David didn’t blame her.

“Um, hi.” David practically had to force himself to speak, and now that he had Marcy on the phone, he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say to her.

“Is everything okay? Not that I don’t love talking to you, but you two don’t usually call when the store’s open.”

“Uh, yeah… well, no…” Fuck. David was stumbling over his words and generally sounding like exactly the sort of idiot that he felt like in that moment. He hated it when he got like this -- when he either couldn’t figure out what to say, or when words would just start coming out of his mouth without the benefit of being filtered through any sort of rational thought. He took a deep breath and looked up toward the ceiling, trying to at least sound like he wasn’t freaking the fuck out over something so silly. “So, Patrick is sick.”

“Hopefully nothing serious?”

“No, no,” David said quickly. “Shit, sorry, I’m just… It’s been a day. Anyway, I was just wondering… what kind of things does he… like… when he’s sick?” David pressed his lips together, purely for the sake of preventing any more words from coming out of his mouth, because now that he was on the phone, his anxiety was absolutely running away with him again.

“Well, he actually doesn’t get sick very often…” Marcy’s calm, even tone helped slow David’s racing heart just a bit, and made him wonder what it would have been like to grow up with her for a mother, because she was just so… _nice_. “But when he was, I always used to make him chicken noodle soup. It was my mother’s recipe, and she got it from her mother, so it’s a bit of a tradition, I suppose. I wish I was closer; I’d make you boys a pot of it.”

“Um, could you, like, send me the recipe?”

“Oh, sure! It’s really simple, and I’m sure Patrick would love having a little bit of home. I didn’t know you liked to cook.”

“I don’t, but, um… I’m learning, I guess? No time like the present.” David let out a nervous laugh, suddenly realizing that his left hand was gripping the edge of the counter so hard his knuckles were white. He shook it out, trying to relax his fingers. “So anyway, if you could email that to me, if you’ve got a minute… You’ve got my address, right?”

“I think so…” David heard a rustling noise that probably coincided with Marcy scrolling through her own contact list, before she added, “Yes, I’ve got it right here. I’ll send the recipe right over. Tell Patrick we love him, and we hope he feels better soon.”

“Will do. Thank you, Mrs. Brewer.”

“Oh, David, please call me Marcy. Mrs. Brewer is my mother-in-law.”

David laughed again, this time a genuine laugh that made him wonder if Marcy had sensed his unease and was trying to break the tension.

“Honestly, David, you could even call me Mom. I’d like that.”

David could hear the smile in Marcy’s voice, and it made him smile as well as he whispered, “Okay. Thanks, Mom. Bye.”

As he hung up the phone, David found himself a bit awed by his own future mother-in-law’s ability to put him at ease, even from hundreds of kilometers away, and somehow also irrationally jealous of the fact that Patrick had had that at his disposal for his entire childhood.

Before his brain could drag him down _that_ particular road, a woman came in looking to buy a hand-knitted scarf for a gift, thankfully _not_ for someone with an allergy to cats, providing him with another convenient distraction. By the time he’d completed the sale and sent her on her way, his phone had already notified him of a new email message, which contained the recipe for Marcy Brewer’s chicken soup.

It did look simple enough -- no folding or simultaneous pouring and stirring involved, at least -- and it seemed pretty straightforward, with minimal ingredients. They had the carrots, celery, and onion at the store, thanks to a local farmer they’d recently partnered with, but he’d have to stop by the supermarket on his way home to buy the rest of the ingredients and hope he could find everything. He’d never bought a whole chicken before -- hell, he’d never bought chicken, period. But he was about to. And he was about to make his very first batch of chicken noodle soup.

Stevie had laughed at him when he called her while he was at the store to ask what a cornish hen was and whether it was the same thing as a whole chicken, but she did ultimately help him get the right thing, and offered to come over and help him cook if he needed some backup so as not to burn down the entire apartment building. But David really didn’t want to bring someone over to Patrick’s apartment -- which was still technically Patrick’s place alone -- without asking, especially when he was sick.

That turned out to be a wise decision, because Patrick was asleep when David arrived, grocery bags in tow. He wasn’t snoring as loudly as he had been the day before, which seemed like a good sign, and his face wasn’t flushed anymore either. Maybe he really had turned the corner. Regardless, David was glad he was resting and grateful for the opportunity to truly surprise him with the soup, assuming he could manage to prepare it without making too much noise.

Thankfully, Patrick was a heavy sleeper, so the sounds of David chopping vegetables while he watched a YouTube video on his phone about how to cut an onion didn’t disturb him at all, beyond a couple of loud snorts before Patrick rolled over and settled back into a deeper sleep. He’d added the chicken to the pot -- after completing several very gross tasks involving skin and giblets that he hoped to never have to do again -- and brought it all to a boil. He was getting ready to figure out what to do next when his phone started to ring with a FaceTime call. It was Stevie, and he didn’t particularly _want_ to answer, but he also knew that if he didn’t, she would continue calling him repeatedly until he picked up.

“What?” He hissed, trying to keep his voice low. “I’m busy. And Patrick’s asleep.”

“Well, I hadn’t heard any fire trucks, so I figured I’d make sure you hadn’t completely blown the building off the face of the planet.”

“I’ll have you know that I am currently watching a pot of chicken and vegetables simmer on Patrick’s stove, and there is no fire aside from the one that is supposed to be there, under said pot. And it’s not like you know anything about cooking either.” He flipped the camera around to show her the soup, probably a little prouder than he should have been of the fact that he was successfully adulting and cooking dinner for his fiance, like a fully functional human being.

But, as always, Stevie managed to bring him right back down to earth. “You know, you should really skim those blobs of fat off, unless you’re trying to make him sick again by grossing him out, in which case, leave them in.”

“Excuse me, but I thought I’d accepted a call from my best friend, not Julia Fucking Child.”

“Just thought you’d like to know.”

“Well, how was I _supposed_ to know?” David could hear his voice rising, even though he was still trying to keep the volume down, because Stevie just brought that out in him, every time, because she knew exactly how to push his buttons. “That isn’t in the recipe! What do I--”

“David?” Patrick’s voice, mumbled and sounding half asleep, joined the conversation, making David curse under his breath. “Are you talking to someone?”

“FaceTiming with Stevie,” he said, turning the phone around so Patrick could see it.

“He doesn’t look as bad as you said,” Stevie cut in.

“What?” Patrick now sounded even more confused as he rubbed his eyes, like he was trying to bring them into focus.

“Nothing,” David said quickly, before turning Stevie back around to face him and hissing, “Great job, you woke him up!”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure _you_ woke him up.”

“Because I was talking to _you_! And everything was perfectly fine before--”

“Are you making soup?” Patrick interrupted, still slurring his words and looking progressively more confused by the second.

“You’re hallucinating; go back to sleep.”

Patrick rubbed his eyes again and blinked a few times, then let his head fall back to the pillows again, as though he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer.

“Okay, I need to go,” David whispered. “Since apparently I have some _skimming_ to do, and I’d really prefer not to wake my sleeping fiance again trying to defend myself because you’ve suddenly become a restaurant critic.”

“Oh, so you’re a chef now? When did you go to culinary school?”

“ _Bye_ , Stevie.” David quickly disconnected the call, causing the video to freeze for a moment on Stevie’s amused face before the screen went black.

David dug through the utensil drawer until he found a large spoon, then used it to follow Stevie’s advice and remove the blobs of fat, which he did have to admit looked pretty gross, though not as gross as the bag of “giblets” had. Once that was done, he figured he’d better check the recipe again to be sure he hadn’t missed anything else, lest he commit some other travesty of soup-making without even knowing it. David picked up his phone and started to unlock it, pausing for a second -- as he always did -- to admire the picture he’d had as his lock screen since the day he’d become truly _sure_ how Patrick felt about him.

It was a picture of Patrick playing the guitar and singing to him at their very first open mic night, taken by Twyla from the front row. She’d shared it with David the next morning, and it never failed to make him smile, even in his very worst moments. Because that was the effect Patrick had on him -- he calmed him down and balanced him out. No matter how wildly David was spinning out, Patrick always knew exactly what to do or say -- snarky, serious, or sweet -- to bring him back. That was why it was important to David to do this right -- so he could be the one to take care of Patrick, for once, the same way Patrick always cared for him.

He’d been right that skimming the fat off _wasn’t_ in the recipe, but, disaster averted thanks to Stevie, as much as he hated to admit that. He managed to pull off the rest of the steps without incident, including fishing the whole chicken out of the pot and putting it on a plate to shred the meat without making _too_ much of a mess. He’d just turned off the heat after checking to see if the noodles were fully cooked, when he heard Patrick’s voice again, this time much more lucid.

“I knew I smelled soup.”

The corners of David’s lips quirked up into a shy smile as he turned to look at his fiance, who was still lying in bed, looking a lot more awake than he had a mere 30 minutes before. “It was supposed to be a surprise,” he said softly. “And it wasn’t done yet.”

“What is it?”

“Your mom’s chicken soup.”

“What? How did you--”

“I called her today. She sent me the recipe.” David left out the part about how he’d needed guidance just to figure out how to be a functional partner, figuring Patrick didn’t need to know that little detail, lest it remind him exactly whom he was marrying and what he was getting into.

“It smells delicious.”

“Yeah, well, you haven’t tasted it yet.”

“I’m sure it’s great.”

“Let’s hold off on the accolades until you’ve sampled the product, mmkay?”

“Well, what are you waiting for?”

“It’s hot.”

“Just the way I like it.” That wry grin that David always found so disarming was spreading across Patrick’s face, accompanied by a familiar twinkle in his eye. But for some reason, this time, it didn’t have the calming effect on David that it usually did. Instead, it only made him feel like the moment of truth had arrived, and somehow the entire future of their relationship hinged on whether or not he’d managed to make an edible pot of chicken soup.

That was a totally irrational thought, and David knew it, but he still couldn’t manage to push it away, and his brain was being completely unhelpful by starting to throw out various scenarios for exactly how repulsive the soup surely was.

“David?” Patrick’s voice brought him back, like it always did. “Is everything okay?”

“Fine.” David could hear exactly how unconvincing his tone was, but there was nothing he could do about it. “Everything’s fine.”

“I’d really love a bowl of soup.”

“Right, well…” David let his voice trail off as he suppressed the urge to wring his hands, which would be a dead giveaway for the unease that was quickly building in his brain and spreading to his entire body. _Here goes nothing,_ he thought to himself as he grabbed the ladle and spooned out a generous helping of soup, being careful to get relatively equal amounts of vegetables, chicken, and noodles. He tried his best to steady the slight trembling of his hands as he set the bowl on a plate and carried it over to the bed, where Patrick had already pushed himself up to sitting against the headboard.

David held his breath as Patrick took his first bite, chewed, and swallowed, still feeling like he was waiting for a verdict to come down on the future of their relationship, no matter how irrational and stupid that thought was.

“So…” he began, cursing how he heard his voice waver. He looked down at his hands to distract himself, noting that his fingers had already begun to twine themselves restlessly around one another, seemingly all of their own accord. Before he knew it, his mouth was doing much of the same, as words rushed out of him without so much as even checking in with his brain, like an out-of-control exhaust valve for his anxiety. “I know I’m not your mom -- because, I mean, for one, all things considered, that would be wrong on _so_ many levels -- and I’m sure the soup is far from perfect, but… Well, I tried. But cooking just really isn’t my thing, and I’ve never--”

“David.” Patrick set the bowl aside and laid his hands over David’s, stilling their restless motion and shushing him at the same time. David met Patrick’s gaze, his eyes the deeply expressive pools of warm golden brown that they always were -- so damn sincere and honest, and laying out Patrick’s every emotion for the world to see. “The soup is perfect, because you made it for me. Actually, it’s delicious. Just like I remember it. And I know none of this has been easy for you, but you've done a great job. Thank you.”

“Well, I don’t know about--”

“David… stop. It's perfect. Because you're perfect… perfect for me. And I can’t wait to marry you. Although I do hope that we can wait a little while longer before we put too much of a test to the ‘in sickness and health’ part of the vows.”

David couldn’t hold back the laugh that fell from his lips or the smile that spread across his face -- this one every bit as genuine and sincere as Patrick’s gentle brown eyes -- as he gazed at his fiance, the man he was so incredibly grateful to be able to spend the rest of his life with, no matter what came their way.

“Same,” he whispered, feeling happy tears start to gather at the corners of his eyes, threatening to fall. “Because _you’re_ perfect… perfect for me.”

**Author's Note:**

> I love interacting with readers, so, comments welcome! :) I'm nervous and excited to be entering a new fandom!


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